


i'm so tired

by hexburn (thestormapproaches)



Category: League of Legends RPF
Genre: Angst, Chance Meetings, Drinking, Drinking & Talking, Drinking to Cope, First Meetings, Gay Bar, Heartbreak, M/M, Post-Break Up, Sad, Songfic, but not sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:14:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestormapproaches/pseuds/hexburn
Summary: He's so, so tired.Tired of love songs.Tired of trying.Tired of enduring night after night alone.
Relationships: past Marcin "Jankos" Jankowski/Oskar "Vander" Bogdan, past Oskar "Selfmade" Boderek/Juš "Crownshot" Marušič
Comments: 8
Kudos: 23





	i'm so tired

**Author's Note:**

> wrote this a while ago, thought i should post it before it became wildly outdated  
> inspired by "i'm so tired" by Lauv and Troye Sivan

_ I’m so tired, _ he thinks.

It’s true.

He’s exhausted.

Really, he’s been running on empty for a while now, knocking his knuckles against rock bottom at MSI when he couldn’t help but self-deprecate and then again after the hard loss at Worlds and now he’s painfully stuck at the seafloor. He’s been here for a while. It sucks.

Everything hurts to him, everything from seeing Luka and Mihael watch anime together to Rasmus and Martin curled up in Martin’s bed when he goes to wake them up to how Oskar just looks so, so nice, sitting pretty next to HeaQ and then Woolite, carrying a team of rookies to wins in the LEC.

He’s so tired.

He’s so damn tired of hearing those stupid, stupid love songs that Mihael and Luka sing to each other, soft and quiet and giggly, believing that everything will be the best it can be even though he knows that neither of them could possibly still believe in stuff like that. Luka’s had his heart crushed a million times. Mihael’s dealt with his own crazy exes. Why are they still okay? Why can they still love?

_ How _ can they still love? He’d sure like to know. 

He hasn’t felt the same since Oskar left.

And those stupid fucking love songs that Martin puts on blast in his room while he and Rasmus dance - okay, they’re not that loud in terms of volume, but Martin always leaves his door open and chooses some sappy, saccharine song with lyrics that make him want to vomit. They pierce into his head, into his mind, until all he feels is sadness and loss. He used to have that. He used to believe in the kind of love people sang about. Now he knows the truth. The fact that he hates it when Martin and Rasmus dance in each other's arms isn't necessarily their fault. They don’t know better. He doubts that Martin’s ever had anything more than the sweet affection he layered onto Sencux even as they drifted apart, and Rasmus still seems strangely innocent, so it's not their fault that they think relationships always end well. Sometimes he hates them for being so openly happy and overflowing with giddy, childish love. Other times he admits to himself that he’s jealous of them.

He wishes he could feel like that again.

He misses Oskar.

He’s so tired.

Exhausted, really.

He doesn’t know why he let Luka drag him to another party, but he did. 

_ “Come on,” he can still hear Luka wheedling, the first night Luka had tried to pull him out of his shell, “it’ll be fun.” For once in the ex-mid-laner's life, Luka had been serious, telling him that, “you shouldn’t get stuck inside your own head. You’ll just dig yourself into a hole. Come on. Get out of the house and out of your head. Just for a little bit.” _

He’d given in at that point because he really couldn’t argue, not when he was actively doing all the things that Luka was telling him not to, so he went to the first party and watched in heartbreak as happy couples mingled around the room.

_ “Vodka martini,” he had told the bartender, almost crying when he realised that he’d accidentally ordered what he and Oskar used to get together all the time. He finished it quickly. “Double shot of vodka,” he asked next. That particular drink is always knocked back as soon as he gets it. “Scotch on the rocks,” he said then, and the bartender shot him a concerned look.  _

She doesn't look at him in worry anymore, these days, only sad understanding after he flinched as a happy couple sat down at the other end of the bar, and he’s always passed another martini without even ordering it.

_ “On the house,” the bartender had murmured, and she promised gently, “it gets better. Maybe not for a while, but it does.” _

_ “Thanks,” he had said, unable to meet her eyes. When she left to tend to another customer, he downed the martini with tears in his eyes and slumped over on the bar, one hand holding his head up and the other on his drink. He'd nursed his whisky for a while. It was only half-empty when suddenly that song came onto the DJ's playlist blaring through the club, a lovely song that sent singles scattering away as couples took over the dancefloor, and it reminded him all too much of happy nights with Oskar, nights of love and tenderness and soft kisses and affection. _

_ He had swallowed the rest of the whisky all at once, ignoring the burning protests of his throat.  _

_ The bartender barely had enough time to thank him for the generous tip before he was out of the door. _

Now here he is again. It's part of his 'recovery process,' as Luka calls it, dragging him to the same gay club every two weeks for Singles Night, even though it's been months, nearly a year, and he's not met a single person, instead watching sadly as people around him click together and dance the night away.

He's so tired. 

He's so tired of love songs, tired of trying, tired of holding onto the faint hope that he could somehow get over Oskar. It's not happening at this rate. Maybe he should just accept it.

He's too old, he's too stupid, he's too ugly. He's too dysfunctional, he's too loud, he's too annoying. He's so fucking disgusting. He's too silly, he's too crazy, he's too crass. He's too insulting, he's too dumb, he's too rude. He can't even do anything other than make fun of the people he likes. He's too childish, he's too flippant, he's too hyper. He's too unattractive, he's too uninteresting, he's too unlovable. He's a coinflip player, he's gotten carried to the only victories he's ever had, he's nothing compared to anyone around him. 

Maybe the real problem is that he's too  _ him. _

He needs a drink.

Just like he always does, he takes a seat at the bar, the seat furthest away from all the noise, the one tucked into the corner of the bar, and signals the bartender over. It's not the usual kind girl; instead, a man who is tall, dark, and handsome takes his order and he can't help but ask where Marie is.

"There," the new bartender says, pointing to where she's taking a brief break from work to sway in the arms of a woman much taller than herself. She soon returns and passes him his two shots of vodka with a flushed grin on her face.

She tells him about Adrienne, who smiles from down the bar with flowing blonde hair and cloud-grey eyes, and he puts on a polite smile. He's happy for her. Really, he is. Adrienne seems like a nice girl, and it's about time that his lesbian friend find a new partner, but he can't help but feel like yet again he's being left in the dust, chained to the memory of Oskar while everyone else roams free.

_ Maybe I'll never get to move on. I mean, no one likes a gay like me. _

Not pretty.

Not cute.

Not handsome. 

Just kinda there.

Marie smiles at him kindly, the way she always does, as he takes the two shots in a single gulp, and when he's set the glass down with a morose look, she already has a scotch waiting for him. "Stay awhile," she says gently as he takes the first sip of his whisky, "give yourself a try."

He sighs, but agrees, and she squeezes his hand affectionately before darting off to dance with her new girlfriend again. Slowly, he works his way through the whisky, whittling down what's left. When it's nearly empty, he holds the glass up and evaluates it silently, looking at the glassy ball of ice surrounded by amber liquid all in the short, wide glass, and he could wax poetic about it were he not tired and very mildly inebriated.

He blames his sudden jump on being tired, as well.

“Hey,” a Polish accent asks from over his shoulder, and the owner of the deep voice calls Marie over and takes the bar stool next to him as he flinches, hard. “You good?”

With a sigh, he’s just about to tell the man that he’s not interested, but then Marie grins at her girlfriend. Didn’t she used to be like him, sad and heartbroken? And now she's smiling happily with more than just pity and pain on her lips? Maybe… maybe he could take a shot. He can always tell the man to fuck off later. 

“Not really,” he replies honestly, “rough breakup, you know?”

“Ah,  _ przykro mi,” _ says the stranger, recognising his accent,  _ “kupic ci cos do picia?” _ and he flinches again. 

Ever since the breakup, every time he hears someone speak Polish to him, he jumps. He’s managed to tame his flinch so that he’s not nearly so unsettled by the robotic voice of his Twitch chat, but it’s still there and comes to life every time he’s interviewed by Polsat Games or talked to by a Polish fan. It’s even worse now that someone’s speaking Polish and trying to hit on him.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t mind another drink,” he says at last, finally taking note of his companion’s appearance. The stranger is about average height, with a nice jawline and cheekbones and soft-looking lips, wearing a black hoodie with a vibrant pink inner lining, and his face is slightly obscured by the shadows cast under a black snapback with a brim in the same bright pink. He doesn’t take too much notice of the rest of the man’s face. It doesn’t matter right now.

“Another scotch and a black Russian,  _ bitte,” _ the man asks Marie. She whips their drinks up quickly and gives the newcomer a drink, handing the second glass of scotch with the same glasslike orb of ice to him with a smile and a wink. 

He smiles shakily back as Marie’s attention is whisked away by Adrienne again. “Thank you,” he tells the stranger.

“Not good with Polish anymore?” the stranger ponders, curious.

“Bad memories,” he responds quietly, “my ex spoke in Polish most of the time. I’d rather not think about him for tonight, though.” 

Is he flirting?  _ No, of course not. Not like it would come to anything, anyway. _ He gestures to the two empty martini glasses and the taken shots of vodka around him instead, proof of just how much he wants to get Oskar off of his mind and out of his head.

The stranger nods understandingly. “Well, you’re taking a step in the right direction, hey?”

“Mostly because my friends are dragging me, but yes,” he answers with a wry grin, and he gets a chuckle from the stranger at that. “I’m Marcin, by the way,” he says after a pause, “and you are?”

“Oskar,” the man says.

Marcin freezes.

This new Oskar keeps talking gently, or at least as gently as he can over the music in the club, but Marcin barely hears a word of what he’s said, probably some other pick-up line or a comment about his shirt, the one that Luka had told him to wear. It’s all in one ear and out the other. He’s too shocked by the mere mention of Oskar’s name, the horrible irony at his side.

There’s a gentle touch, a hand on his shoulder that makes him jump. “Marcin,” new-Oskar says, “are you okay? If I’m bothering you, just say the word and I’ll leave.” Marcin still can’t quite see his eyes, but there’s an element of concerned empathy in every action this stranger takes towards him that he wants to stay, if only for a moment longer.

“Sorry!” Marcin responds almost too quickly, “it’s fine, I’m fine, this is fine, sorry. I’m just- I haven’t really talked to anyone like this in- in a while.” It’s a shy confession that comes with an awkward laugh as new-Oskar smiles handsomely. “Maybe… maybe I’m not the best person to talk to right now,” Marcin continues, aware of his own boundaries. He won’t be going on any one-night stands anytime soon.

His heart isn’t yet mended enough for that.

But new-Oskar just smiles again, a half-smirk that makes Marcin feel a little warmer in his long-cold heart. "That's okay," he says through curved lips, "I'm not exactly looking for anything like that either." He sighs as he takes a sip of his drink, and he looks at Marcin with piercingly blue eyes before he smiles again with soft pink lips. “So your ex’s name was Oskar as well?” he asks, and Marcin worries over whether it’s really so obvious.

“Y-yeah,” he says at last. He continues after a moment, “How did you know?” He’s fairly sure he’d not mentioned a word of his Oskar to new-Oskar, even though his Oskar isn’t his anymore.

“You flinched pretty hard when I introduced myself.” 

_ Ah. _ Marcin almost feels the need to apologise, only stopping himself when new-Oskar gives another smile, this one sad and nostalgic, that stops him in his tracks all the same. 

“It’s okay,” new-Oskar reassures, “I would have done the same if you’d introduced yourself as Juš. Call me Selfmade if it makes you feel better, Jankos.”

_ So that’s where I know you from. _ He’d barely noticed through the alcohol. "Sorry," Marcin laughs sadly, "I didn't recognise you."

"That's fine. I could tell you weren't paying much attention."

Again Marcin chuckles awkwardly, the way he always does when uncomfortable or not sure what to say, though this time he's not met with a weird look but instead a similar soft laugh, and he feels comfortable here. It's comfortable with new-Oskar. 

Not as comfortable as with old-Oskar, but comfortable. 

"Yeah, I'm still not over him."

New-Oskar hums in understanding. "Vander, right?" Marcin nods. "I thought that. How long has it been?"

He doesn't want to answer.

But new-Oskar waits, he waits and watches with observant, nonjudgmental, unmoving eyes, sipping his drink calmly, and Marcin soon caves in.

"A year and then some. Almost two years," Marcin confesses, so long and yet he's still not over old-Oskar.

New-Oskar's eyebrows rise. "That long? And still no one new for you?" Marcin shrugs, smiles sadly, and nods again slowly. New-Oskar makes a noise of confusion, turning to Marcin and tracing each line of his face with an intense gaze that makes Marcin turn away and hide his blush in his whisky, just in case the dim bar-lights don't quite conceal it. "I don't understand it," new-Oskar continues. This once-supposed stranger reaches a hand up to Marcin's cheek, and, to Marcin's surprise, he doesn't shy away, instead only averting his gaze. "You're beautiful, sweet and cheery, and you're adaptable and kind. You could have your pick of the men here." Gently, cautiously, Oskar cups a hand around Marcin's face and strokes his cheek. 

For a second, Marcin closes his eyes, indulging in the touch. It reminds him of something warm and soft and soothing, a patient hand running over his features to calm him while a sharp tongue teases him fondly, and he leans into the memory of a different Oskar, but he soon comes to his senses and pulls back. "I- … I doubt it," he says quietly. Oskar scoots closer to hear him. "I'm not the kind of- of man that other men like. Not anymore."

"Why not?" Oskar asks innocently. 

Marcin doesn't believe he's not being teased.

He stutters an answer, unsure, unsteady. Why don't people like him? He doesn't know.

Well, he does, but saying stuff like that just would make him sound pathetic. "I mean, I just can't get over my- my ex," he says, and it's not far from the truth - he's been missing old-Oskar for far too long, hung up on everything old-Oskar used to do. 

He can't help but compare everything he sees to himself and old-Oskar, everything he dreams of has old-Oskar in it, everything he wants was given by old-Oskar. It's much too much, sometimes. No one seems to show interest in the quiet man in his pretty navy-blue sweater, drinking too much, always single every Singles Night, not interest the way that old-Oskar had always shown interest and love and appreciation. People couldn't care less that he's there. He's invisible because of the phantom in his dreams and expectations.

As Marcin sighs, Oskar's expression knits itself into a puzzled look, the look of someone trying to solve Marcin's labyrinthine heart. "Are you trying?" Oskar asks. Shocked, Marcin stutters.

"Wha- of course I'm trying!" he blusters. Isn't it clear how much he wants to move on? "I'm here, aren't I?" His attempts just don't seem to work.

"But Luka brought you here," Oskar says with a light hand on Marcin's arm, and Marcin finds that Oskar is painfully right. 

The other Pole's eyes are patient, somehow even more patient than old-Oskar's despite this newer Oskar displaying so much less patience daily, and Marcin wants so badly to just tell Oskar everything that's on his mind - all his insecurities, his failures, his pains, his sorrows, and the feeble little joys he has now - but Oskar seems wise beyond his years, now, and another part of Marcin is wary of Oskar, wary of the prying and poking. And yet Oskar plods steadily forward, pushing Marcin without forcing him to give way. 

"I'm asking  _ you, _ Marcin," he says, looking into Marcin's deep blue-black eyes with icy blues of his own. "Are  _ you _ trying?"

_ … _

_ I don't know. _

_ I'm so tired. _

"You have to try," Oskar murmurs gently, reassuringly, one of only two steady entities in Marcin's world that Oskar has just upturned, hopefully for his own good. "You will not get over him if you do not try." The hand on his shoulder and the gentle eyes at his side emphasise Oskar's point in Marcin's mind.

"I've tried and I've failed," Marcin chokes out.

"Then just try again," murmurs Oskar with an encouraging smile. He jostles their shoulders affectionately. "You and me, we don't give up easily, we're stubborn Polish junglers, man. We just keep on trying until it succeeds."

Solemnly, as soberly as a semi-tipsy man can, Marcin sighs and stares into his drink, hoping the patterns in the scotch-whisky sediment will show him the way. It doesn't. 

This is real life. 

He's as lost as he ever was.

But Oskar's thumb brushing against the corner of his lips causes him to look up, and a small slip of paper is pressed into his palm as Oskar kisses his knuckles chivalrously.  _ "Z niczego, nic nie będzie, _ no?” Oskar smiles and gently chuckles. “If you ever want to talk - or try, for that matter - you know where to find me."

Maybe a fairy-tale ending  _ could _ exist in his harsh, cruel, physical-world life.

Then again, even though the events of the night were so positive and promising and  _ good, _ Marcin will go home alone once more. All the world but a scrap of a receipt and a phone number will abandon him as it always does, and, once in the privacy of his own depressingly silent room, the midnight-sky oceans in his eyes will overflow. Beneath the whirring of a fan, sobs and screams and cries of anguish will flood his bedsheets just like so many Single Nights before.

There will be no quiet laughter under the blankets. No soft kisses. No mumbled goodnights. No loving body next to his, warming them through the night.

Just cold, dry pillows and cold, wet tears. 

And the next morning, there it will be, hanging in the bags under his eyes, the one constant of his life through old-Oskar's departure. Even after all the positive efforts in the world, Marcin still will be doomed to be…

_ So tired… _

He wonders if he’ll ever meet someone to go home to.

He wonders if he might have met them tonight.


End file.
